


The Rise and Fall of Johnlock

by resplendentgertrude (enaidmora)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Post Reichenbach, Pre Reichenbach, Reichenbach Feels, Smut, Trust me there is a happy ending, angst like whoa, not a sad ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-17
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-05 12:30:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enaidmora/pseuds/resplendentgertrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It didn't happen like it should have. They should have had years together full of laughs and silly fights and crime solving. But then Reichenbach happens and John is left mourning the man he had just begun to call his lover while Sherlock is hunting down all of the men who seek to kill the one thing he cares about most. Both are falling apart but only Sherlock has the power to put them back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Rise and Fall

John opened his eyes slowly, taking a moment to remember where he was. He was in Sherlock's bed, lying on rumpled silk sheets with a very sexy detective curled around him. Sherlock's long pale arms were wrapped around John's chest, holding the doctor securely against his chest, his hips pressed against the back of John's thighs, his leg slipped between John's. He was warm from sleep and breathing softly at the back of the John's neck, tickling the little hairs there.

John smiled, replaying last night in his head. Their getting together had been quite sudden. Sherlock had burst through the door shortly after John had returned from another one of his failed dates, this time with a fellow blogger who seemed far too interested in John's crime solving for a nonparticipant. He had cut dinner short and trudged home, hoping for a a quiet evening in front of the telly with Sherlock pointing out all the flaws in the programs, scoffing at the general populace's idiocy. What he had gotten was much better.

John had just settled on the couch with a cup of tea when the door flew open, revealing his flatmate who face looked determined bordering a bit on angry.

"John, I disapprove of you dating anyone else," Sherlock announced forcefully ripping his scarf off his neck.

"Hold up. Since when do you get a say in who I date? Also for your information the date didn't go well," John replied when Sherlock's words finally sank in. "Wait, what do you mean 'else'?"

Sherlock quickly undid his coat, throwing it on the chair. "I think what I meant is fairly obvious."

John's pulse sped up a little. If he had understood the detective correctly that would mean John was only allowed to date him.

"I thought you were married to your work," John shot back, putting faith in his own minideduction.

Sherlock smirked and strode across the room, straddling John on the couch. "I find the idea of being attached to you much more appealing. Besides you are a central part of my work, John." His hand cupped the man's face, elegant fingers tracing his cheekbones as he stared intently into John's eyes.

John had forgotten how to breathe the second Sherlock had situated himself on his lap but suddenly the air was back with a vengeance. He made a sort of choking noise in the back of his throat before surging forward and latching himself onto Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock's lips were soft and plush, smooth against John's slightly chapped ones. Sherlock hummed his approval, angling his head for better access, swiping his tongue at the seem of John's lips. He opened his mouth to let the probing tongue in, wonder idly in the back of his mind how Sherlock got to be such a good kisser.

Sherlock smirked against John's lips, his hands latching onto John's hair. "I observe, John." John just nodded, aware that the detective had practically read his mind but his head was too clouded with lust to care. John brought his lips back to Sherlock, sucking gently on his bottom lip, running his hands down the detectives back, feeling the heat through the fabric of his shirt. Sherlock nipped back and shifted slightly on John's lap due to the awkward angle. John's attention went from the beautiful mouth currently winning the battle for dominance to his erection which he had somehow failed to notice. He was incredibly hard for only a bit of snogging, already pushing against his zipper. His hips moved almost involuntarily.

Sherlock deepened the kiss, tangling his tongue with John's, licking the roof of his mouth, stealing away the man's breath. John let his hand slide lower, grabbing Sherlock's arse, pulling the detective's body closer. The kissing was a bit awkward now, Sherlock's height getting in the way a bit.

"Wait," John said, pulling back from the kiss, his chest heaving. Sherlock seemed to read his mind, his eyes dark with lust, panting in time with the doctor. The doctor took a good look at the man sitting in his lap and what he saw sent a wave of heat to his groin. Sherlock's lips were red and spit slicked, swollen from the enthusiastic snogging, his shirt mussed from where John's strong hands had gripped him, his erection tenting his fitted black trousers. Sherlock gracefully slid of John's lap looking pleased with what he saw.

John stood up, eyes intent on the pale column of Sherlock's neck, wondering what he it would taste like, if sucking on it would make Sherlock moan. Sherlock seemed to know his thoughts, taking a step closer, tilting his head to the side, exposing the flesh. John latched on and began to suck angry red marks into the flesh, lathing them with his tongue once he was done making them. Sherlock growled, his hands pulling at the hem of John's jumper, trying to get closer to his skin. John lifted his arms up pulling away from Sherlock, allowing the article of clothing to be removed. Sherlock tossed it over in the corner before assaulting John's lips, forcing the doctor backwards down the hall as Sherlock's hand began to discover John's body.

Sherlock's hands were warm as they glided over John's tan skin, feeling the compacted muscle beneath the surface, finding the places that made John's hands tighten in his shirt and arch into his body. John nipped Sherlock's lower lip his hands grabbing his ass, feeling the defined globes move as the detective walked them towards the bedroom. Sherlock tripped over their feet, falling forward slightly and pressing John against the wall, their erections coming in contact through the fabric of their pants. John pushed against Sherlock, his hips thrusting forward his head fell back against the wall as Sherlock regained his balance.

John's hands began fumbling with Sherlock's buttons, dying to touch his skin, feel the lithe muscles move directly against his own. Sherlock growled, grabbing John's ass, lifting him against him and began to carry him to the bedroom, having grown impatient. He wanted to touch John just as much as John wanted to touch him. John wrapped his legs around Sherlock, impressed at the detective strength, imagining him manhandling him. John moaned, sucking Sherlock's tongue into his mouth when he suddenly found himself being dropped on a bed. He looked up and saw his flatmate, two buttons on his purple shirt undone, looking already thoroughly debauched. His hair was mussed, a flush stained his cheeks, his eyes virtually consumed by his pupils, his erection visible in his trousers. God he was beautiful.

Sherlock quickly divulged himself of his shoes and socks, ripping his belt off in a hurried yet practiced manner. John quickly undid his own belt, tossing it in the corner. With their belts removed Sherlock crawled on top of John, framing John's shoulders with his arms, knees on either side of John's legs. "How are we going to do this?" he asked, his baritone voice deeper and rougher than usual.

John groaned at the sound, the blood pulsing in his groin. He didn't care about the particulars right now, he just wanted Sherlock naked and flushed, writhing against him. He began fumbling with Sherlock's buttons again, his fingers caressing the skin once he exposed it. Sherlock's eye fluttered shut as he swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing. "John," he groaned. "I can't think with your hands on me."

"Then stop thinking," he said almost breathlessly, latching onto the detective's collarbone. Sherlock moaned, his hips thrusting down, finding friction against John's cock. John made a noise against Sherlock's skin, tongue tasting it as he finished opening the shirt. He removed it with difficultly, Sherlock trying to stay balanced on top of him. With the shirt off John arched up, feeling his bare skin against Sherlock's for the first time

It shouldn't have felt this good. It was just skin and sweat but to John it felt like ecstasy. He pulled Sherlock closer, feeling his erecting dig into his hip. He rolled them over, muscles bulging as he switched their positions. He sat up, ass resting against the hardness in Sherlock's pants. John shivered, looking down at Sherlock, his hair spread out on the cream sheets, lovebites marking him as John's. John traced Sherlock's cheekbones gently, wanting Sherlock's eyes as they caressed him, lingering at the front of his trousers.

"I want you inside of me," John said, once he trusted himself to speak. "I want to ride you and feel you taking me."

Sherlock moaned helplessly, sitting up and reclaiming John's mouth. He did sinful things with his tongue as he unbuttoned John's trousers, slipping his hand inside. The feeling of Sherlock's hand against his cock was unbelievable. He made a wanton noise, shifting forward, before rocking back. Sherlock's hold tightened, his own hips rocking towards John's. After a couple minutes of rocking John was frustrated. He needed Sherlock in him and he needed it soon. He got on off Sherlock's lap, rising to his knees, pulling his pants and trousers down, hard cock springing free. It brushed against his belly, leaving a small about of precome. He was already dripping and the foreplay was just beginning.

Sherlock licked his lips, undoing his own trousers so he could touch himself at the sight of John hard and leaking for him. He ripped off his pants, craving the feeling of John's skin against him, eyes fluttering shut as he twisted his hand around the head of his flushed erection, swirling the precome at the tip. John threw his pants and trousers off the bed, enraptured at the sight of Sherlock touching himself.

"Lube. Condoms," he managed to croak out. Sherlock's eyes snapped open. His hand left his cock, fumbling at the end table to open the drawer, pulling out the necessary supplies.

John raised an eyebrow, surprised he didn't have to go to his own room to fetch them. "I had hoped that there would be a pleasurable outcome for me after your date," Sherlock said, watching John as he opened the lube, squeezing some on his own fingers.

While John hadn't had sex with a man in a long time, he still fingered himself with he masturbated always having loved the feeling of being filled. He circled his hole, moaning. Sherlock's eyes followed he movements, hand returned to his neglected member. John pushed a finger in, enjoying the slight burn. He twisted it, moving it against his tight inner walls. After a few moments he pulled it out before pushing two in, the stretch a little more painful but quite satisfying.

Sherlock's eyes were wide, staring at the place where John's fingers disappeared into his body. He let go of himself and grabbed John's hips pulling him back into his lap. John stilled his hand, curious to what Sherlock's plan was. Sherlock slicked up his own fingers, long and elegant. John pulled out his own hand as Sherlock reached around, tracing the slightly stretched hole, teasing it slightly before pushing them in.

They were longer than John's stretching him further. Twisting deftly inside him, they pulled noises from John who was rocking back on them. Sherlock smiled, nipping John's jaw as his fingers finally found John's prostate. The feeling of those violin callused fingers touching his pleasure point had John throwing his head back, trying to pull the other man closer. Sherlock smirked against his skin, adding another finger, scissoring him, preparing him.

John mewled as the fingers teased his spot. "I need you in me. Now," he groaned, sweaty forehead resting against Sherlock's.

Sherlock pulled out his fingers, grabbing the foil packet in his hand. He ripped it open using his teeth, eyes never leaving John's face. John grabbed it from him, unrolling the condom on Sherlock's erection. It was long and nicely formed, mirroring the man's stature, flushed with arousal.

Sherlock grabbed his cock and John rose up on his legs, the head of it aligning with John's entrance. John slowly sank down on it, the burn, the stretch causing him to become incoherent. Sherlock made a strangled noise against his neck, hard length sinking into John's tight heat. John was fully seated, his arse resting on Sherlock's lap, Sherlock's cock fully encased in the doctor.

John's mind reeled. An hour ago he had just returned from a horrible date and now he was sitting on Sherlock's cock, being taken by the detective he had barely allowed himself to fantasize about.

Sherlock was breathing heavily, hands running up and down John's trembling back. It was surreal, to be this close after dancing around each other for so long, neither one fully even allowing themselves to admit to themselves they wanted their flatmate.

John began to move, feeling the drag of his lover's cock on his sensitive inner walls. He began to establish a rhythm, twisting and clenching, causing Sherlock to abandon all control, thrusting up into John, sucking the breath from the doctor's lungs. He grabbed John's hips, muscles in his arms bulging as he helped the other ride him.

The angle shifted and his prostate was hit again, causing John to clench down, howling and arching into Sherlock. Sherlock growled, increasing the pace, the sound of slapping flesh beginning to fill the room. They were both panting, lost in the sensual feeling of their flesh coming together, the friction, the pleasure. It went beyond the physical as John sank down on Sherlock, impaling himself on his hard flesh. They were as close as two people could be, claiming each other.

John felt the beginning of his orgasm in the pit of his stomach and the base of his spine, Sherlock taking John's cock in his hand, using the precome to made the slide easier. His hand knew exactly what to do and John was lost to the feeling. He felt overstimulated riding Sherlock hard, moaning uncontrollably. Sherlock moaned rolling his hips. John couldn't handle it and then he came, hot ribbons, coating Sherlock's chest. He continued moving up and down on Sherlock, insides clenching tight around him, dragging the detective's orgasm out of him, crying out, "Oh God! Sherlock!" as Sherlock screamed, "John!"

Their movements became erratic, lost in each other and their nirvana. Sherlock stroked him until he was spent, collapsing against each other, falling back on the bed.

Sherlock kissed the top of John's head, slipping out, ripping off the condom and tying it off and tossing it into the bin. John felt empty, his insides clenching at the loss of Sherlock. John was incredibly satisfied, lost in a post coital haze.

John nuzzled the other man's neck sleepily, pressing lazy kisses.

"John, as much as I love this I need to clean us up."

John grumbled, settling himself on the detective, entirely pliant. "John, you'll hate it in the morning if we are stuck together."

John reluctantly rolled off of his new lover, flopping on the bed, still having trouble catching his breath. Sherlock sauntered off to the bathroom, returning shortly with a damp cloth to clean off both himself and John. John murmured as Sherlock gently cleaned off the lube and come, pressing gentle kisses on the inside of John's thighs, fingers caressing his hips.

He put the cloth on the night stand and pulled the covers up and snuggled underneath them, pulling John against him. John had already been missing the feel of Sherlock's body against him, the lithe muscle and soft skin. Sherlock spooned him, leaving kisses on John's neck, stroking John's belly. He relaxed into the other body.

There was a bit of leftover tension hanging in the air. "It was amazing," John said, soothing Sherlock's worry. Sherlock hummed appreciatively, closing his eyes, snuggling against John as they fell asleep.

And now here was John, still cradled in Sherlock's arms, pleasantly sore and more content than he had ever been.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, his arms tightening against John. "Morning," he murmured, his voice sleep rough, fingers tracing patterns on John's abdomen.

"Good morning," John said, twisting in the detective's grasp, nuzzling his neck, grinning.

Their eyes met for the first time since they had come and it was intense. John knew that after last night there was no turning back. He was Sherlock's until the end of time and Sherlock was his. They kissed each other chastely, confirming the other's hopes, taking away their fears. They were there to stay.

The kissing was slow and lazy, long hot drags of tongue, gentle nips and the smooth gliding of their mouths. Arousal began to creep into their slow and lazy snog, cocks dragging against each other. They moved their hips together slowly, rocking against each other.

"John," Sherlock gasped, fingers digging into John's shoulders, feeling the muscle move as John lay on top on him, rolling his hips downwards. "Touch me."

John's hand snaked its way between their bodies, grabbing both their erections, stroking them as they slowly rocked together, the smell of sex filling the room. Sherlock was writhing against him, licking the shell of John's ear.

"Sherlock," he growled, latching onto Sherlock's neck again, taking pleasure in leaving marks showing that Sherlock was his.

They didn't last long, enjoying the easy intimacy. Sherlock grabbed the cloth from last night, wiping them both up.

"We need to get up," John commented, still laying on top of Sherlock, enjoying the heat and the sweat.

"I do not want to go to court," the detective grumbled. "I'd rather fuck you all day," he whispered hotly in John's ear. John shivered against him, feeling the pleasure roll up his body.

"Sadly, that is not an option," he replied, extricating himself from the detective's needy arms, heading to the bathroom. He paused at the door. "Are you going to join me?"

Sherlock smiled. Shower sex brightened the prospect of having to deal with imbeciles.

 

Looking back on it now, John wished they had stayed in bed, losing themselves in each other and not another one of Moriarty's twisted games. It all went to hell.

Moriarty was free and something was wrong with Sherlock. Moriarty said the detective was fake, that it had been all lies but John didn't believe him. He knew Sherlock.

He knew things had gone really bad when Sherlock threw him against the wall, biting and sucking without preamble, rutting against John. It was like he was trying to consume him, take a part of him to keep forever.

John was happy to oblige, all the questions and anger fleeing his mind at the drag of their erections, wanting to consume Sherlock too. Their greedy hands ripped fabric and clawed at each other, breathing in each other's air, trying to sink to the other's skin, moaning and writhing.

They stumbled into the bedroom, already naked, fully erect, unwilling to let go. Sherlock seemed desperate as he pulled John on top of him. "Fuck me, John. Please." He voice was full of need, breaking with all the emotion behind it.

John was happy to oblige, slicking up his fingers, pushing them in. The preparation was quick and messy, Sherlock mewling as John found his prostate.

"I want you to take me on my hands and knees," Sherlock gasped, pushing back against the digits, spreading his legs further. "I want you to fuck me until I can't remember my name, make me yours. John, make me yours."

John had to grab the base of his cock to keep himself from coming. "Sherlock," he growled, pulling his fingers out. Sherlock quickly sat up and turned over, offering himself up wantonly.

"More, John. Give me more." John was entranced as Sherlock exposed himself, vulnerable and aroused. He quickly put on a condom and slicked himself up, too eager to feel Sherlock around him.

Sherlock said he didn't like bottoming, that it made him feel like he had no control, couldn't think. And now here he was, telling John to take him. It meant more than he could possibly imagine. While the rest of the world questioned Sherlock, John still had faith in his detective and the detective still had faith in John.

He slid in easily, losing himself in the slick, warm heat of Sherlock's body, his hands gripping Sherlock's hips hard enough to leave bruises. He halted once he bottomed out, his chest already slick with sweat at the strain of not moving. He was inside Sherlock, taking him just like Sherlock had taken him, completely the final act of intimacy between them. And it felt so good. It was better than Sherlock saying 'I love you', surrendering entirely and letting John take charge.

"Move," Sherlock said, shifting around John. And John did, thrusting into Sherlock, angling to make sure he hit his prostate with every movement. The bed hit the wall as Sherlock demanded he move harder, pushing back against the doctor.

John's hand wrapped around Sherlock, quick strokes that pulled both men closer to their climaxes. They came together, screaming the other's name, lost in the their heady scent, the sensation of friction, the incredible closeness.

Shelock's legs gave way, collapsing on the bed, panting and groaning. John rolled off, barely able to breathe. The detective's hand shot out, grabbing John's twining their fingers together. Sherlock's thumb caressed the back of John's hand. "Thank you," he murmured, shifting towards John, molding his body around his lover's.

 

The next day John woke up alone in Sherlock's bed, the spot next to him cold. From then on the day seemed to be a blur until the moment he arrived in front of St. Bart's. Sherlock was standing on top of the hospital, standing on the ledge.

No, that couldn't be right. Sherlock would never jump, could never jump. Sherlock was talking in his ear but his voice didn't comfort John like it normally did. This couldn't be happening. There was no way. John and Sherlock had been wrapped up in each other not ten hours ago, moaning and loving each other yet here Sherlock stood, saying he was a lie, a fake.

"Goodbye, John," the detective said, throwing his phone away, opening his arms like he was going to try to fly.

"Sherlock!" John screamed, the named ripped from his chest as he watched the man fall. Time seemed to slow down. Please God, no, his mind cried as he watched his lover plummet down, beautiful and terrifying. He could only hear his pulse as he ran forward, a cyclist hitting him. No. No. No.

He got up, dazed, barely able to breathe, feeling as though he heart had been ripped out of his chest. It hurt, a numbing type of pain that consumed him. He couldn't remember much of what happened after, the world seeming grey and surreal. Sherlock couldn't be dead, he couldn't have jumped.

But that was Sherlock's life blood framing his head like some sort of sick halo. They wouldn't let him near Sherlock, wouldn't let him touch the man he loved. Oh God, how he loved Sherlock. But now he could never tell him, never whisper it in those heated moments of sweat and friction. Never growl it as Sherlock came inside of him. Never murmur it in those silent moments in the middle of the night, so wrapped up in each other that you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

Somehow he ended up back at Baker Street. The silence was oppressive, drowning him, filling his lungs with the sadness that was destroying every last piece of him. Their clothes still lay strewn around the flat, the only sign about what happened last night.

The breath was ripped out of his lungs. John gasped, legs buckling as he began to sob, harsh noises that echoed in the empty flat. His fingers clutched his arms, hugging himself, trying to fill the empty hole that was now in his chest.

Sherlock was gone. His Sherlock was gone. He began to sob louder, screaming with tears streaming down his face. His face was contorted with grief, unable to tame the raw emotion raging in his chest, threatening to destroy himself completely. No, promising to destroy every last piece of him. His mind couldn't fathom the fact Sherlock was never coming back.

All the color was gone. Alone couldn't even begin to cover the despair and pain of Sherlock's death. All the things that were fixed were broken, ripped to shreds by razor-like fingers. It was all pain and despair. It was worse than after Afghanistan. It made that seem like a bad day, not a bout of depression.

"Sherlock," he moaned sobbing into his hands, rocking back and forth. "Oh God," he cried, too full of pain. He had no air, no oxygen, nothing.

Why did Sherlock leave him? Was John not good enough for the detective? But all that happened last night tried to convince him otherwise. He was so angry at Sherlock. How could he leave him alone? Sherlock was his life, was his everything and he just took it all away.

John gasped, clutching his chest. It hurt. It hurt worse than getting shot, worse than any of Harry's betrayals. He had never felt anything like this before. It was more powerful than what Sherlock and he had. It was the negative, the void. It sucked all the happiness out of him, turning every happy memory into a moment of pain, pure and unadulterated.

His partner was gone. All their private moments seemed like fantasies. They were hollow and broken, no one to share them with. The only person who could comfort him, dead.

He howled collapsing on the ground, curling up into a ball. This could not be his reality. He would wake up and find it to be a sick dream.

But the bed in Sherlock's room still had the rumpled sheets, smelling of sex and Sherlock. And it was empty. John barely made it on the bed, falling on it, clutching the sheet like a lifeline. He inhaled the scent, trying to save the way Sherlock smelled forever, knowing it soon too would fade just like all the memories. Soon it would be a ghost just like Sherlock, haunting the flat. Haunting John.

John closed his eyes and tried to remember Sherlock's smile, the face he made when he came but he couldn't. All he could see was the blood spilling out from his head on the sidewalk. All he could feel was the cold, harsh pain of loss. He felt himself slip away, becoming the ghost that Sherlock was to him.


	2. After The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is living in a ghost filled flat and Sherlock's mind is haunted by guilt he cannot deal with.
> 
> The fall has turned John into a broken liar and Sherlock into a murderer. It is not okay but it will be.

It doesn’t get easier. John doesn’t wake up one morning and feel the weight in his chest lighten. He still has trouble swallowing around the knot in his throat, even has trouble walking. He wakes up in the morning, not reaching for the temporarily filled spot next to him in bed, but instead straining to hear the notes of the violin floating down the hallway, or the hurried steps of Sherlock pacing. Maybe the dull clatter of lab equipment as Sherlock experiments and makes a discovery that no one outside of their little world can really appreciate. Instead, he is met with deafening silence that haunts him like a shadow. The dreams don’t get better, either. Now instead of watching the men in Afghanistan die beneath his hands, their life blood staining his hands and clothes, it is Sherlock. Sherlock lying in the sand, blood everywhere, eyes closed as John tried everything he can to save him. Sherlock lying on the floor of Baker Street, needle in his arm, cold and pale, his screams of anguish falling on already deaf ears. Sherlock bleeding out on the pavement of London, John unable to even try and aide his friend and lover. The blood and pain in his dreams lurks on the edges of his brain, overshadowing the attempts Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade make.

Often, John sits on the edge of his bed and watches the run rise over London. The city seemed dead to John most days. It was empty, vacant, transport. Some days John would shower in Sherlock’s soap and clothe himself in Sherlock’s dressing robe to try and fill the hole in his chest. He would wrap himself in Sherlock’s scent and pore over Sherlock’s notes on his experiments, Sherlock’s messy scrawl littering countless pages with deductions and observations that left John breathless and miserable. It was like someone had turned off the lights and he was left blindly walking around in the dark. John was truly the conductor of Sherlock’s light and without Sherlock there was nothing to conduct, no brilliance to illuminate the secrets and intricacies of London. It was empty, cold, and dark.  
John was afraid to touch most of Sherlock’s clothes, his bedsheets, his violin. He didn’t want to blot out Sherlock’s existence with his own, replace Sherlock’s scent with his, touch things he was never meant to touch. He could see the disapproval in Greg’s eyebrows, the concern in Mrs. Hudson’s eyes. They were worried about him living with the ghost of Sherlock. But John was a soldier; he was strong. He didn’t let the fact he couldn’t breathe stop him from inhaling, the fact he was broken keep him from fixing the superficial wounds and illnesses of others. He knew how to put on a brave face and fight onward. Only there was no end to this war; there were only the daily battles he faced. The first was waking up. It was every morning realizing again that Sherlock was dead, remembering that the dreams of Sherlock’s lifeless body weren’t just images from his own personal horror movies. It was taking that first breath after grief clogged his throat and threatened to choke him. Then came the struggle to open his eyes, some part of him convinced that keeping them closed would keep the truth at bay, that lying in bed, eyes screwed shut, would somehow keep the reality of a world without Sherlock from being true.

Eventually, he would open his eyes and either be greeted by the darkness of a predawn world or the light of a new day. He would sit up and face the window, feeling the coolness of the room seep into his skin, the sweat from his nightmares chilling him. John would just breathe, trying to stop himself from hyperventilating or succumbing to the wave of anguish and exhaustion. Then was came convincing himself getting out of bed was a good idea, and that just because Sherlock was gone, it didn’t mean his life was over too. If he was honest with himself he would admit to just how much he lied to himself. Sherlock had turned him into a liar and a broken liar at that. John would lie and say to himself that Sherlock would want him to live his life, to try and feel normal. Sherlock would want him to get out of bed and that it was just ridiculous sentiment that made him want to disappear under the false protection of blankets and false ignorance of sleep. In reality John fancied that Sherlock would probably insult his sentiment and then smile smugly, knowing he had caused that much of an emotional reaction in a person. But then of course, sometimes in order to win the war one must bend the rules and so John continued to lie.

The lying part of his day was never over. Telling Mrs. Hudson he was fine, telling Greg that it was okay and that all was forgiven, telling Mycroft he doesn’t actually believe Sherlock will come back, telling Sarah that no, he didn’t lock himself in the bathroom and cry when he saw that old man that had the same scowl as Sherlock did as he argued with his lover, telling Molly that the reason he couldn’t have tea was he was having dinner with Harry, telling Harry he was having tea with Molly, telling himself that tomorrow would somehow be better. It was lonely nights sitting in his chair, staring at Sherlock’s empty one, a mug of cold tea on his knee practicing the lies over and over. He was sure Mycroft kept an eye on him and probably pitied him on the nights he lay on the floor sobbing and gasping after finding something that reminded him of just how much he had lost.

At night he would clean his teeth and put on his night clothes and stand in the dark hallway and debate which bed he would sleep in. On the bad nights he crawled into Sherlock’s bed and pretended he could still smell Sherlock on the sheets, hugging his pillow like a life preserver as he let himself capitulate to all the feelings he pushed aside, screaming and howling like a wounded animal, letting his loss consume every fiber of his being. On other nights he would limp upstairs and sit at the edge of his bed for a moment or two in stoicism, composing and fortifying himself for the next day and the imminent nightmares before sliding under his military-crisp sheets and closing to his eyes, stupidly praying that tomorrow would be the day he woke up and didn’t have to deal with the fact Sherlock had left him. Willingly.

But then the next day would begin and the war still raged on. He had his own scars, physical things that showed that he was not okay as he tried so valiantly to pretend. His limp was back as was his cane. The cane was as dented and damaged as him from the times he threw at the wall in anger. He had bags and shadows under his eyes, showing just how hard it was to do something as simple as sleep. His clothes hung a bit looser, some of his weight had dropped off from lack of interest in food. But the mental scars were worse. It took him two months for him not to be afraid to close his eyes anymore, to no longer be afraid of the bloody halo around Sherlock’s head.

Every month, on the date of Sherlock’s fall, he would let himself get drunk. He would let himself rant and rage to an empty chair, to profess love and beg and plead for him to come back, to apologize for yelling at him for putting body parts in the fridge, to take back his apology because he wasn’t the one who left. To laugh at the memories they shared and the cases they solved. It always ended with him caving and texting the backup mobile phone Sherlock owned for his undercover work that John still hadn’t found.

I miss you. Please come home. -JW

Sherlock almost counted the days in between the texts as he lay in some shitty hotel room, the wallpaper peeling, the bed lumpy and worn, his bloodstained clothes soaking in the rusty tub. He had never been able to keep track of time unless it was a necessary part of the game but now, like clockwork, he received those two simple sentences from John. A broken John who thought he was texting a deadman. Sherlock felt uncomfortable reading the texts, like he was going through John's things without his permission. This felt private, like it isn't his to look at or know about. Part of him hoped that John will stop texting him and move on, the text Mycroft sent him still buried in his mind, a virus he can't delete. 

Looks like Moriarty managed to burn your heart after all.-MH

But John was fine. John was alive. John was still breathing and living and that was what was important. He stopped looking at the updates from Mycroft, unwilling to see if he had the capacity to feel guilty or to discover the hard truth that John had moved on. He was selfish and wanted John waiting for his return despite the fact it meant John was probably worse off than when he found him. Part of Sherlock hated himself for this, for the fact he wished that John loved him enough to wait for him to come back after apparently ending his life in front of him. But it was all necessary. It was part of the game, a game Sherlock refused to let Moriarty win.

It was frustrating, battling ghosts all day. The ghost of Moriarty taunting him and forcing him to violence, the ghost of Mycroft's words eating at a part of him he didn't want to acknowledge existed, and the ghost of John Watson telling him to come home with his sad eyes and tight mouth. He watched from the cemetery, unable to help himself, justifying it as just more data for the game he was playing. He needed to know how it affected John. Standing there, watching his companion beg for him to come back despite the knowledge everything was probably screaming at the doctor that he could not, showed Sherlock his true role in this game. John wasn't his queen but was indeed the king. He was limited by his powers of observation but was strong and could survive without the queen. The queen could be sacrificed so that's what Sherlock was. He was free to move as he played and was the strongest player against Moriarty. Moriarty wasn't even a piece on the board. He was the master chess player. Moran was his king. Before Sherlock could kill the network he needed to decimate the board, take down the other pieces. 

He watched John try to compose himself at his grave, turning stiffly like a soldier. He underestimated how badly John would be hurt by it all. In the middle of it all he had somehow miscalculated. But it was a miscalculation that he could afford. The only one he could. Despite how badly he wanted to run after John, to show him that he didn't need a miracle because Sherlock had outplayed the master, he knew that it would be the end of everything he had sought to win, fought to gain, hoped to keep.

Sherlock tried not to dwell on any of it, knowing that if he did, he'd be on the first plane back to London and in their flat, hugging John to him, trying to memorize the way he felt pressed up against him, the way he moaned his name and this was not okay. This was not an option. He didn't have that freedom. The only thing he had are days and night bathed in blood and lies as he dismantled a web that sought to strangle him. Instead he focused on the next part of the game, the next part of the web to burn with a focus unlike anything before. Sherlock was a man possessed, possessed by fear and the need to protect what he cared about most. He was an avenging angel, hunting down men in dark alleyways that smelled of piss and trash, sneaking into ivory buildings and baptizing their marble walls in crimson. He was the monster in the shadows mothers warned their children about and the executioner that didn't wait for the guilty verdict. Sometimes he could use Mycroft and his resources to simply destroy the small crime empires and send them to prisons where they would rot in the darkness but more often than not Sherlock gazed at the obstacles that kept him from home from the other end of a revolver or knife. No bodies were found unless they were messages. They couldn't hide forever and Sherlock was an impatient man. 

It was the night after taking down one of Moriarty's lieutenants that had unsettled him for the first time. Before it had just been about hunting down those that stood as a threat to John's safety but there had been a witness. A man, no more than twenty had walked into the room right as Sherlock had broken the lieutenant's neck. His eyes widened and he looked at Sherlock in horror. He had seen Sherlock's face and obviously knew the corpse lying on the floor. The boy had begun to reach for his phone and Sherlock, still high on the adrenaline of taking out another key piece on the board, pulled out his gun and shot him. It was only after the smell of gun powder had left the air Sherlock felt revulsion sink into his bones. He had killed a man innocent of association with the network. He could just imagine how John would look at him. There wouldn't be any warmth or fond understanding in that gaze. No gentle censure or familiar exasperation. It would be of disgust and anger. He had left a body count that would elevate his name into historic infamy and now he was spilling the blood of bystanders. John would look at him like he was Moriarty and the thought made Sherlock throw up his dinner in some dirty alley, hundred of miles from home. He felt himself sob, body shaking with misery he didn't know how to comprehend, but his mind had felt detached as he brain supplied him with the images of all the men he had slaughtered in the name of John. John wouldn't be thankful or even proud of what Sherlock had done; he would be horrified of what Sherlock had become. He was no better than the men he tracked down for Lestrade, no better than the spider that had strapped explosives to the chests of the innocent all in the name of a game, no better than the red dot that was a permanent fixture on John Watson's brow all because Sherlock had the capacity to do what he had just done. Moriarty didn't need to kill John himself to win. He had given a loaded gun to Sherlock and had sent Sherlock out into the dark, shooting blindly. The bullets were bound to hit John, it was just a matter of time.

Sherlock felt his phone buzz in his pocket and he howled. Somewhere John was mourning him, drowning himself in the alcohol he had hated for the pain it had caused him, all in his name but he couldn't be what John was mourning. He was some twisted thing, a mere shadow of the brilliant detective John had seen him as, shaking in a bile soaked alley, smelling of trash and death, desperate and broken. He thought he had been done falling, that the jump off the roof would be enough to satisfy Moriarty but it appeared to just be the beginning.

He felt his phone buzz again and tried to compose himself. It was from Mycroft. He looked at it, hoping that it would be about how John had moved on so he could languish in his monstrosity some more but it was not.

He needs you. -MH

It was slap to the face. He didn't even need to be there to hurt John. Right now there was no game to focus on, no next kill to track, no bishop to take. Right now there was John. Sherlock was on his feet before he even seemed to register his capacity for movement had returned. He strode across the dark streets and towards the room he had booked, John's name the only thing he allowed in his mind. He was on a plane within the hour and in London before the sun could threaten to rise. He used the secret route he had plotted one day in a fit of boredom and was inside his flat, still only thinking John. He paused for a moment to take in the changes, noticing the rumbled carpet in front of his chair, the empty liquor bottle next to it, the broken cup in the corner. He left his hands run over the back of John's chair, closing his eyes, letting the smell and feeling of home invade his senses. 

He began to walk towards the stairs leading to John's room when he heard noises from his own room. He opened the door and found John lying in his bed, twisted in his sheets, face buried in his pillows as he tossed restlessly in his sleep. Sherlock was suddenly able to breathe again, sinking to his knees. This was why he was doing all that he did. John was his to protect even if it meant becoming the being everyone was afraid he secretly was. John needed to safe and alive. Everything else was just transport.

He remembered the last time they had been in this room together. They had been a mess of sweaty, entangled limbs, giving and taking pleasure. Now they here they were, John mourning a man just feet away and Sherlock fighting to keep that facade alive by becoming a murderer.

He let himself have ten minutes, just watching John sleep. He didn't let himself touch John, just looked at him, took in all the subtle changes he had missed. Sherlock felt his nails dig into his palms until they bled while keeping his hands to himself. He'd be able to touch John again. He'd be able to hold him. But first there were more pieces to be won and more blood that needed to be shed.

His life fell back into a pattern. Find the target, eliminate the target, move on to next target. On good days he went straight into planning again, on most days he scrubbed himself clean in the shower until his skin was raw and the water no longer seemed to run pink, on bad days he would let himself think about everything, on the worst days he'd find himself back in London. He'd never allow himself more than ten minutes of watching John or to go back to London twice within a three month period. He created rules and continued to play the game Moriarty had laid at his feet. There were just three pieces left.

Standing on the edge of a busy street, watching John limp to work, a determined expression on his face Sherlock understood things were not okay. But they would be. They would be very soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the end of the major angst parts. Expect a reunion and more smut coming soon. Let me know what you think. It gets a little dark there.


	3. Falling Farther

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is back.

Moran was the end. Sherlock had known that from the beginning. Now, standing outside of 221b in his old coat with his scarf around his neck, staring at the door, he wondered why it didn't feel over. He felt like there was a target still painted on John's back, that all he was bringing was death and pain. Maybe it was because of what he had become. John wouldn't want him home. He should have never come back. John was better without him.

But then all Sherlock could see were the signs he had observed that screamed that John was not okay without him. The nightmares, the weight loss, the frown lines, his desperate texts. There was no winning. He had trapped himself. His king would fall no matter how he played the game. Sherlock put his palm against the black door, unsure of what he was doing for the first time in a long time. John made him doubt not the facts in front of him but the thoughts in his head. He was a game changer and had changed the way everything worked. The way he focused, what motivated him, how much he cared, how he organized his mind.

He owed John. He owed John the truth, at the bare minimum an explanation, for everything he had put the doctor through. Sherlock missed John so much but knew stepping through the door and coming face to face with the man he had longed for for three long years wouldn't be what he wanted. He was a murderer and John was still mourning him. He wanted what he had a brief taste of, that easy relationship they were made to fall into. He wanted bickering and John yelling at him about experiments and terrorizing the Yard with inappropriate groping. But it didn't lie behind that door. It wasn't behind any door. The second he walked through that door he would have to face the fact that he still wanted John and that John might not want him. His hands were soaked in the blood of dead men and he had killed them all for John.

It should be easy, pushing open the door, striding up the stairs, temporarily ending John's nightmare. He wished he could come back with clean hands and a clean mind but the dead still flitted across his brain, pushing him towards his only chance at repentance. A chance he didn't even deserve. How selfish he was, standing out here. How selfish he had been, doing this to John, getting the man involved in everything. There was no game anymore. He had taken out all the pieces and was left only with returning to his own king. But maybe there was never a game in the first place. Maybe Moriarty had won the day John first walked into Bart's, leaving a hole in Sherlock's armor, giving the tin man a heart.

Sherlock almost laughed at himself for his maudlin thoughts. A man who had spent so much of his life without the heavy burden of emotions now crippled by the fear and panic they instilled deep inside of him. He had let himself care and now it threatened to destroy him. But he didn't care about the fact he was the one falling apart. It was all John. John would care. He would care about the fact Sherlock had a death toll to his name, that he had lied to him, that he had let him believe he was dead.

The door opened very much like it had for the secret visits, the hinges quiet. Mrs. Hudson was out doing her weekly shopping and John didn't work today. Tomorrow was the anniversary of the fall and John never worked those few days around it. Sherlock never was there on the actual day, knowing he wouldn't be able to stop himself from trying to comfort John, take the alcohol from his hands. The now bimonthly text message were his guilt spelled out across his mobile screen.

He ascended the stairs, no longer taking care to avoid making noise. He didn't stop to knock and opened the door, returning from the dead, returning to John.

John wasn't in his chair but part way in between, no color in his face, his mouth tight. Sherlock took another step into the flat and looked him in the eyes. “I'm home, John.”

John took a half step forward before stopping himself, distrustful and upset. “Is this my miracle, Sherlock?”

Sherlock considered it for a moment. “I don't know.”

 

It felt like for a moment John could breathe again. Sherlock was there, standing like he normally did, a familiar silhouette in a familiar place. He was home. He wasn't dead. Part of John wanted to collapse under a wave of relief. He didn't have to grieve anymore. He didn't have to face forever alone. Sherlock was home. He wanted to rush to Sherlock, to feel that he was there, alive, but he stopped himself. Sherlock standing there meant what he did almost three years ago had been faked.

Rage quickly burned out all sense of relief. Sherlock had lied to him, killed himself in front of John, pleaded with him to watch his fall, to keep his eyes fixed on him. John felt sick with a sense of betrayal. He felt used in a way he didn't understand. “Three years, Sherlock! Three fucking years I mourned you! I have lived in this flat with your ghost and all you can say is 'I'm home, John'? I sometimes wondered if you ever cared about me but never had I imagined you could be this much of a heartless bastard! I defended you, Sherlock! I fell apart because of you! Say something, God dammit!”

The detective looked defeated in a way that baffled and infuriated John. How dare Sherlock stand there like he was the victim in all of this. Sherlock had made a choice, a choice to jump, a choice to leave, a choice to lie.

“I don't know what you want me to say, John. I did it to protect you.”

John snorted in indignation. “Protect me? How does killing yourself protect me? How does leaving me to rot in my misery save me, Sherlock? What good does making me watch you die and then finding out that it was all a lie do to keep me safe?”

Sherlock took a half step forward, an arm half raised, reaching for John. “Moriarty-”

“Moriarty? It's always his fault, isn't it? Do you know what? Maybe you could have told me back then, clued me in on your little plan. Ever think of that?”

Sherlock shook his head, frowning.“It wouldn't have-”

“You don't know that!” John responded with certainty.

“I do, John! He would have killed you! There was a man waiting to shoot if I didn't jump! You had to believe I was dead to live. Everything I have done these past years has been for you!” It wasn't anger that twisted Sherlock's features though, as he yelled back at John. It something else, something foreign to his face, a deep unhappiness that made John uncomfortable. Sherlock wasn't made to handle deep emotions and it made the whole thing seem wrong. Part of it felt like a lie or game, a clever excuse but the pain in Sherlock's face negated most of the doubt edging its way in.

John took a moment to process the information. Even with the unhappiness, even with the excuse, it didn't make any of it right. It didn't make the pain and suffering he went through instantly better knowing that Sherlock had done it all to save him. “Are you expecting me to forgive you, now that I know why? Are you expecting to just pick up where we left off before you went ahead and decided to fake your own death?”

“No,” Sherlock replied evenly. “I don't expect you to forgive me.”

“Then why did you come back?” John roared.

Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to regain composure, eyebrows briefly coming together before returning his gaze to John's face. “Because I owed you an explanation.”

“You owed me?” John repeated incredulously. “You owed it to me not to lie in the first place! You owed it to me to clue me in to your little plan and not let me grieve you for three fucking years! You owed a hell of a lot to me and this pithy explanation doesn't even begin to cover it, Sherlock!”

“John-”

“No! You don't get to say my name in that tone of voice. You don't get to act like you are hurting as much as I am! You don't have that right and you sure as hell owe me a better explanation than the one you just gave me!”

Sherlock looked at him helplessly. “What else do you want me to say, John?”

“Why are you back here now? What warranted the return of great Sherlock Holmes?” John sneered back. None of it made any sense. If Sherlock being alive was a threat to John why was he standing in the living room, destroying whatever sanity he had left.

“Moriarty's network is destroyed. Coming out of hiding no longer puts your life in danger.”

John looked at Sherlock in disbelief. That wasn't good enough.“That's it? I'm safe so, hey, you can come out of hiding and show up here and make me realize that everything I felt is probably based upon some lie? That I have been manipulated and broken over some game you were playing with a psychopath? Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“I don't know.”

“Oh look, the consulting detective, all out of explanations.”

“I'm sorry, John,” was all Sherlock had in reply.

Silence hung in the air for a moment, the hot rush of rage briefly sated. John rubbed his brow tiredly, his anger and grief still raging inside his chest. He felt exhaustion in every cell of his body. “I am not going to forgive you, Sherlock.”

John saw Sherlock stiffen and take an aborted step back, fear briefly flashing through his eyes. “So is this goodbye?” His voice wavered, words barely containing a question.

“You were just going to pop in, say 'I'm not dead' and then leave again?” John accused.

“I don't know! What do you want from me, John?” Sherlock demanded. He looked pained and bewildered. Part of that scared John. Sherlock didn't show vulnerability and here he was apparently barely able to hold it together.

“I don't know! I don't fucking know!” John felt himself begin to lose the control he had miraculously maintained thus far. It was all too much. Sherlock was back, every day he had been fighting through the past three years a lie. The war he had been waging daily was over and here he was, left in discontentment. He could feel his throat tighten and his chest burn as he began to cry brokenly. He sank to his knees, hand covering his face, sobs filling the room. He heard the rustle of cloth as Sherlock moved before he felt that familiar hand grasp his shoulder. Part of John wanted to shrug it off, push Sherlock away. A larger part wanted to pull Sherlock closer, lose himself in the embrace. He could barely breathe and for the first time in a long time he didn't know if any of it was worth it. John felt gutted and empty. How much of it was a game to Sherlock? How was John supposed to be okay after all that had happened. It wasn't okay. None of it was.

John felt Sherlock gently pull him into his arms. He could feel the warmth of his body against his skin but his bones felt cold. “You don't get to leave me again,” John finally said, once his body had stopped shaking and he could use his vocal chords again. John pressed his face into Sherlock's coat, griping him like a lifeline. “You don't fucking get to leave me.”

Sherlock gripped him tighter and John swore he could feel his hair become damp with Sherlock's tears. “I promise, John.”

John nodded once before pulling away. He straightened his jumper before briefly glancing at his hand. Sherlock's eyes followed his, momentarily confused. John balled his hand into a fist before punching Sherlock in the face, knocking the unsuspecting detective unconscious. “That's what you get for leaving, you asshole.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like it. This is turning into a bit of a beast. It might actually get some more plot to it soon. There is still a lot of angst ahead.


End file.
